Obliviate!
by Pseudonym Sam
Summary: Sergeant Archer Price lives a rather humdrum existence at his Army base in the West Country. However, all of that changes when he and his unit are summoned to respond to a very strange and violent… hurricane?
1. Chapter I: Obliviate!

**Chapter I: "Obliviate!"**

Saddam Hussein's promise to deliver the "Mother of All Battles" was nothing more than a joke. They were a pushover: Coalition air power had pulverised the Iraqi positions for several weeks, and many soldiers in the Iraqi army simply ran away. Some more stubborn Iraqis, however, didn't.

_See the world!_ or _serve your county!_ the British Army posters and articles said. Corporal Archer Price was doing both, fighting the Iraqis that _didn't_ run in bombed-out Kuwait City. The air reeked of petrol, and the horizon was slashed with black plumes from burning oil wells. Thuds of explosions and cracks of gunfire broke the tranquillity of the deserted city.

A bunch of Iraqis with a machine gun were barricaded behind sandbags and concrete barriers at a street corner. Corporal Price and the other soldiers took cover and traded fire from across the intersection. A well-placed grenade landed in the knot of Iraqis, and the machine gun nest fell silent.

Archer peered over the rim of the potted palm tree he was covering behind and saw the fleeing backsides of some Iraqi soldiers in the derelict street ahead. "Let's go! We've got them on the run!" he shouted exuberantly.

Corporal Price and the rest of the men eagerly ran off in pursuit of the retreating enemy. Archer fired as he ran, and the body in his sights fell down. Then, completely out of the blue, the ground soared up and connected with Archer's face.

He had no idea why he had fallen down, but he was soon provided an answer. There was a blossoming spot of red in his uniform from the bullet that had passed cleanly through his left thigh. Then the pain caught up to what he just saw.

It was an experience that Archer didn't care to repeat.

Three weeks in the hospital, two medals (Distinguished Service Order and the Gulf Medal), a promotion to Sergeant, and five years later, Sergeant Archer Price enjoyed a less violent life stationed in the West Country. He much preferred Somerset to Kuwait, since he felt he had seen enough of the world with the Persian Gulf War. At the base in Somerset, he and his men did combat exercises, drills, and of course, military parades from time to time. Archer proudly wore the two shiny medals on his dress uniform, quite happy that there were no opportunities to earn any more decorations. Earning the Distinguished Service Order was painful enough the first time.

With nobody to fight, Archer and the rest of the men relaxed in the barracks on a lazy, muggy weekend. The weather for the last few months had been equally depressing, though beer and card games helped.

Archer never joined in the weekend gambling sprees. He had too much experience owing other soldiers his hard-earned money that the habit had been beaten out of him long ago. He saw no need to break up the card game though, but he had his duties to attend to.

"Private Brown and Private Williams, you have to clean the loos," he ordered, the harbinger of bad news that day. _Rank hath its privileges_, Archer thought to himself smugly.

The two Privates grumbled, pulled out of the game, and disappeared for an hour. Archer sat on his bunk and wrote some notes for his lecture at the local Primary School the next day. He had been asked to tell students what it meant to be in the Army, and to tell them the importance of protecting the nation. _Protect against whom, exactly?_ his brain wondered.

Archer thought of answers to probable questions that would be asked, all of which were stupid like _have you ever shot anyone?_ or _what did it feel like getting shot?_ If the Army had taught Sergeant Price anything, it was to always be prepared for the unexpected. Since nobody was going to attack Britain anytime soon, he instead prepared himself for his upcoming encounter with the students.

When the lights went out a few hours later, Archer fell asleep, assured that nothing out of the ordinary would happen the next day.

How wrong he was.

* * *

There is no bugler waking the men in the morning. Instead, the harsh shrill of the emergency alarm resonates throughout the barracks, at an early, un-Godly hour. Sergeant Archer Price suddenly jerks awake and checks his watch: it is seven minutes after midnight. Almost in unison, he and all the other men in the barracks leap from their bunks and dress into their uniforms.

"What's going on, Archie?" asks Corporal David Smith groggily.

"No idea," replies Archer as he laces his boots. "It must be a surprise drill."

"I didn't hear anything about it," interjects Private Brown stupidly.

"That kind of defeats the purpose of a surprise drill. Hurry up and get ready!" Sergeant Price snaps.

"Move soldiers! Form up!" bellows the Colonel.

With unconscious precision, all of the soldiers form perfect squad lines, the senior non-commissioned officers up in front.

"First Squad ready!"

"Second Squad ready!"

"Third Squad ready!" yells Sergeant Price.

In moments, all of the squads in each platoon are ready: armed, dressed, and ready to go.

"Men!" shouts the Colonel, "this is not a drill! We have received numerous reports of an enemy of unknown size and identity, here…" he points at a huge map of the area on the board with his stick, much like a teacher would with a yardstick. _There goes my school lecture today_, Archer thinks to himself. "…All police and Army units have been mobilised to isolate the threat. It is our job as the Army to surround the disturbance and create a perimeter. You will then receive further orders from there as more information comes in. Any questions?"

There aren't any. However, Archer doesn't like how they have no idea what they will be facing off against. He keeps these qualms private.

"Good. Move out!" finishes the Colonel

"Each squad to their Saxon! Move!" barks Lieutenant George. The men of Third Squad clamber into their Saxon Armoured Personnel Carrier through the rear double doors. Sergeant Price counts his soldiers again as they board the vehicle with their L85 rifles. When all are accounted for, he clambers into the back.

"Is this the real thing?" asks one of the Privates excitedly. Archer can't understand why the soldier is looking forward to getting shot at. _You can't argue. You were just like him five years ago_, his brain reminds himself.

Archer solemnly nods and climbs up into the commander's cupola, manning its machine gun. He flips the top open and loads a fresh belt of 200 bullets. _Something really horrible must be happening_, Archer thinks to himself grimly. The situation, whatever it is, is serious enough to send both the police and the Army. They are even bringing along Scorpion light tanks, whose 76mm gun is unsuitable in hitting anything smaller than an elephant.

The drivers fire up the motors, and the armoured vehicles come to life. With loud hums from the engines and crunches from clashing gears, the Saxons lumber out of the barbed wire gates, with the Scorpion tanks in the lead.

In the distance, several news helicopters hover high above, aiming wavering searchlights and cameras downwards into the chaos below. About a mile ahead of him, the sky is aglow from fires and distant explosions. Dense columns of smoke spiral up into the glowing darkness. The streets crowd with people gawking and pointing at the dazzling destruction ahead.

The armoured column snakes forward and comes to a stop at a roadblock, only a few blocks away from the scene. The police had evidently arrived first and blocked all of the streets with a tangle of cop cars. Now it is the Army's turn to move in and face the unknown, nameless enemy. The column of Saxons splits off into several smaller groups to enter the area from different directions, each column headed by a Scorpion.

Archer's column squeezes through the police roadblock. "Good luck," a policeman says over the din of the vehicles' engines.

The Scorpion's tank treads clatter as they go, crunching up old and loose bits of pavement. Archer notices the increasing devastation as they get closer. It looks as if a hurricane had visited itself in the West Country: there are uprooted trees, gutted houses without roofs, bent lampposts…

…And bodies. Many of them – all civilians – are grotesquely sprawled in twisted positions. All of them are still in their pyjamas.

"Jesus Christ…" he says softly. It is the closest thing to prayer he can say.

The column of Saxons rounds a corner, and then Archer sees them: hooded, cloaked figures, dragging people out of their houses and running rampant through the streets.

"We have company!" Sergeant Price yells. The Saxons come to a stop momentarily to let the soldiers dismount, who take cover behind the vehicles and nearby houses. Archer aims the machine gun at one of the men in black cloaks. He squeezes the trigger and looses off a burst. His target leaps aside with impossible speed, so that the stream of bullets screams harmlessly past. The man had moved so fast that he could have simply vanished from one spot and popped out the other.

Archer swerves the machine gun and shoots again, but the cloaked figure simply darts to-and-fro, dodging his bullets. Archer has just enough time to see that the man's face is obscured by a mask when a bolt of green light whizzes past the Sergeant's head. Had he not ducked in time, the tracer will have certainly made a mess.

Archer stands up and fires again. The masked men are totally unperturbed by the stream of hot lead, and the Sergeant doesn't hit any of them. A jet of red light from nowhere hits the Saxon's engine. The vehicle staggers to a halt and the front bursts into flames. Knowing he has only moments to spare, Archer clambers down into the passenger compartment, choking on thick, greasy smoke. He grabs his L85 rifle and he runs out of the Saxon.

The surviving Saxons and the Scorpion tank charge at the enemy, guns blazing. One of the Saxons suddenly comes to a halt, its wheels having inexplicably disappeared. Seeing enough, Archer runs back and finds cover behind a low brick wall where the rest of his squad is huddled.

There is a loud bang and a chain of explosive pops much like firecrackers: the tank and all of its ammunition must have lit up. Confirming this, hot chunks of armour plate thump against the brick wall and land in the grassy lawns, setting fire to them. More green and red tracers thwack into the wall, showering Third Squad with bits of pulverised brick and mortar.

"We're pinned down!" screams the Corporal, stating the obvious.

Archer quickly peers over the wall and sees more hooded men approaching, tracers zipping in all directions from them. _Much tougher than Iraqis, they are_, his mind says stupidly. He fires wildly into the mass before ducking behind the wall again.

Archer rips the empty magazine out of his weapon. "Smoke!" he barks as he reloads his rifle with a fresh magazine.

Two of his men pull out cylindrical grenades, which resemble soup cans with pins and levers. They pull the pins and lob them over the wall. There is a sputtering sound, answered by billowing clouds of grey smoke.

"Third Squad, follow me! We're going to flank them!"

He doesn't know whether his men had heard the order or not, but it doesn't matter. When he hurdles the wall and runs, his men follow.

Green tracers dart through the smoke. Most pass harmlessly…but one doesn't. When it makes contact, it isn't accompanied by the wet slapping sound that announces a bullet meeting skin. Instead, there is a flash of green light and a rushing noise like some demented vacuum cleaner, trying to suck up something more than just air. A soldier flops to the ground: limp and very dead.

"Charlie's down! Man down!" screams Corporal Smith.

"Leave him David!" responds the Sergeant. The distance is only as long as the street is wide, but it feels like forever to cross it. The squad makes it to another row of houses, leaving one of their number as a blurry black blob through the smoke, lying the middle of the road.

Archer pulls out his radio and thumbs it on. "Lieutenant George, this is Sergeant Price, Third Squad! We are attempting a flank attack to your right. Do you copy? Over."

The radio sputters and burps. He waits for a reply, but there is none. Just strangled squeaks and beeps are heard from the radio, which is plainly going haywire.

The whole operation had simply boiled down into chaos. The Army had just walked headlong into the meat grinder, and Archer has no idea what is happening to the other squads and platoons. At least one of his men is dead, and not being able to communicate with other units isn't helping matters. As Archer sees it, the whole operation will fail.

It will not fail due to lack of effort, though. With Archer in the lead, Third Squad runs past several more rows of homes and wrecked vehicles. A car lies flattened and squished in the middle of the street, like a bug that had been stepped on. A BBC news helicopter is hit by a purple tracer and it bucks and jerks in the air madly, as if to unhorse its occupants.

With no enemy in sight yet, Archer jumps over a broken see-saw and breaks down a house's back door, and the rest of Third Squad takes positions in the neighbouring houses. He barges up the staircase. All the light fixtures are out, but the light from the explosions and fires outside are more than sufficient. The noise of the battle is much louder here: explosions, screams, gunfire…

Sergeant Price peers through a second storey window, scanning the street below for targets. Finding one, he aims his rifle at the back of one of the hooded men below, currently busy lighting a man on fire. "Gotcha, bastard!" he growls as he pulls the trigger.

There are a series of brilliant flashes from the muzzle. The rifle jumps. Ejected cartridge cases spin through the air and glimmer in the firelight.

The burst makes contact, but barely. Some of the bullets blatantly bounce off the man's hardly bullet-proof cloak. The man staggers as if punched, turns around, and shoots a menacing green bolt of light at Archer with his thin weapon. He ducks momentarily as it whizzes past, and immediately afterwards lobs a grenade through the window.

The grenade lands at the hooded, masked man's feet. He bends down to pick it up and eyes it curiously, as if wondering what to do with it. The man had seemingly never seen a grenade before. _Idiot_, the Sergeant can't help but think as the grenade explodes in the man's face.

Not much of him is left. His mask is punched full of holes and his weapon falls to the ground with a clatter and rolls away. Sergeant Price barely has time to register the dead man's peculiar gun. More silent tracers – _or are they lasers?_ – of various colours slam into the wall around Archer's window. Then there is a deafening roar; not a roar of an explosion, but a human voice that is impossibly deep and loud. Forgetting the battle, Archer turns around to find the source of the voice, and sees through the other window an 8 tonne Scorpion tank flying towards him.

The wall explodes as the tank smashes through it. Splintered bits of wood and plaster scythe through the air. He is thrown from the house and lands on the lawn. The Scorpion lands in the street behind him, gouging a huge hole and scattering asphalt and mangled bits of tank all over the place. Archer's eardrums are pounding so hard he can't hear anything. His heart is beating so fast it will explode any moment. At least his eyes are working… until he sees the giant.

There is an enormous man, a full head and shoulders taller than the house he just destroyed. Archer furiously rubs his eyes to make sure they are still working properly. Opening them again, he discovers that sure enough, only a man that size is big and strong enough to toss the shattered tank behind him. Despite its enormous size, the man looks like no man Archer had ever seen. It is strangely misshapen, with an unusually large and round head with thick, wiry black hair protruding from beneath his tank-like battle helmet. The head is perched on top of the shoulders with very little neck, and its thick, muscular body is clothed in a dark green scaly material. Archer tears his eyes from the impossibly large man and skims the ground frantically, looking for his rifle. It is nowhere to be found, but it hardly matters. _What can a stupid, tiny bullet do to a man that size anyway?_

Other men are firing at the giant, though, and not just with small arms. A tank round hits the side of the giant's big, bulky helmet. There is a shattering explosion and the giant's thick beard lights on fire. The giant reels under the impact, but quickly regains balance and charges after the offending tank, bellowing unearthly war cries. Several missiles follow, but the few that make contact are barely able to penetrate his skin, let alone his armoured clothing. The other missiles explode prematurely or – very strangely – stop in midair entirely.

Suddenly, Archer is dragged irresistibly up in the air by his ankle. He had been so busy watching the giant that he forgot about the hooded, masked men in cloaks making a horrible mess of things in the streets. Dangling absurdly upside down, he sees that his ankle is grabbed by nothing but air… and in the air is a horrific image of a huge, green, glittering skull with a snake protruding from its mouth. Looking down, he sees that many of his comrades lie dead in the streets. Corporal Smith is cut down by what looks like a zigzagging jet of purple flame, and slumps to the ground like a marionette with its strings cut.

Resigned to the same fate, Archer looks at his hooded captors, all of whom are laughing and pointing thick, wooden chopsticks at him. He isn't thinking anything; his mind had simply gone blank. After what seems like an age, one of them yells_ "CRUCIO!"_ at the top of his lungs.

The pain is unbearable: his body is on fire. Aided by gravity, the blood vessels in his nose, and surely his head, burst. He can't even hear himself scream, because it is too painful to listen. His arms and legs thrash. His teeth are chattering, and he can feel blood from his tongue.

Suddenly, it is gone.

_"Stupefy!"_

One of the masked men is hit right in the face by a red tracer and topples over. People in long cloaks materialise out of nowhere to fight the masked men. Red and green tracers fly wildly in all directions. Archer falls to earth with a crunch.

He doesn't dwell on the thought that the fall might have broken his neck. He is driven by a single, perhaps even divine purpose: to escape.

He ignores the pain in his legs. He ignores the explosions and the thrashing bodies. He even ignores the fear inside him. All he is doing is running faster than he ever had in his life. He hurtles past a downed helicopter and ruined Army vehicles, the broken remains of a police roadblock, and finally the battle itself.

Finding a secluded corner, he collapses and lets exhaustion take him away.

* * *

_"Ennervate,"_ said a voice.

Archer suddenly awoke. It was morning. He blinked his eyes, and the image of a man slowly came into focus. The man was wearing plus-fours, and he was pointing a wooden stick – a wand – at him.

He smiled weakly. "You got me Gandalf."

The man in plus-fours looked puzzled. "And what exactly, is a 'Gandalf'?"

"It's not a 'what' but a 'who'," explained Archer. "Ever read _The Lord of the Rings_?"

"No," the wizard responded smartly, lowering his wand. "I need you to tell me everything that happened here."

Archer was in no mood to do so. _I better get a medal for this_, he thought to himself bitterly.

"Just look around you. That'll tell you everything you need to know," he answered, not bothering to hide the sarcasm.

The wizard looked in the direction of last night's chaotic insanity.

"I see your point sir. You are the fourth Muggle so far to give me that answer," he said with a wry smile.

"And what exactly, is a 'Muggle'?" echoed Archer, imitating the wizard's voice.

"A non-wizard or witch, such as yourself. A _normal_ person, if you will. Now please, tell me everything about you," he ordered, annoyed, as he pulled out a notepad and a green quill. He sucked on the end of the quill and left it on the notepad, where it balanced upright on its point.

Archer sighed. "Why not? My name is Archer Reginald Price…"

After about ten minutes of tedious dictation, he finished. The wizard checked the notes the green quill had written for him. Suddenly, a mischievous smile exploded on the man's face.

Archer was going to ask the wizard what was funny, but he was distracted by the wand pointed directly at his face, aiming straight at his nose.

"You going to kill me?"

"No," the wizard responded simply, still smiling…

_"OBLIVIATE!"_

His eyes slid out of focus and all thoughts were wiped blank. He didn't see the wizard disappear into thin air.

When he returned to consciousness, he wiped off the crusty, hardened blood on his face. He looked down at the nametag, and wondered why he was wearing Sergeant Archer Price's uniform. "I guess I'll give it back to him," he muttered vaguely to himself.

Michael Cunningham walked away from the freak hurricane's aftermath, with an unexplained desire to move to Australia.

* * *

**List of Bewildering Military Things You Probably Didn't Understand**

This short, handy-dandy guide will explain to you the more troublesome military equipment and other things mentioned in the story that had you scratching your head. If you haven't noticed, I have a strange passion for military hardware.

**Saxon Armoured Personnel Carrier:** This is a four-wheel drive armoured vehicle used by the British Army, as well as the militaries of Bahrain, Kuwait, Malaysia, and some other African and Asian countries that nobody bothers to remember the names of. The Saxon can transport around eight to ten infantrymen (foot soldiers) in the back, which is accessible from a double door at the rear and a door on each side. The Saxon is equipped with either a turret on top or an open mount, with either two or one machine guns. The Saxons featured in this story just have an open mount with a single L37A1 machine gun.

**L85 Assault Rifle:** This is the standard infantry firearm used by the British Army since 1985. Its official designation is the L85A1, but I didn't feel like repeating that throughout the story. Anyway, it fires the 5.56 millimetre NATO round, which is the same ammunition used by other weapons such as the M16 (standard U.S. infantry rifle). Like the M16, the L85 uses a 30 round magazine and has similar performance. However, the L85 looks nothing like an M16. The L85 uses a "bullpup" configuration, meaning that the action, receiver, and magazine (in short, all of the guts) are placed behind the trigger. This makes the L85 much shorter than the M16, even though their rifle barrels are of similar length.

**Scorpion Light Tank:** Please understand that this tank is "light" in relative terms, weighing a mere 8 tonnes as compared to 60 for the Challenger tank, for instance. Anyway, this is a tracked vehicle with a three man crew, armed with a 76mm main gun with a 7.62mm machine gun coaxial (parallel) to the main armament.

I can see that your attention is waning, so I'll just shut up now. Thank's for reading!

Pseudonym Sam


	2. Chapter II: Certified Identity

**Chapter II: Certified Identity**

_New South Wales Police Department  
Inner Metropolitan Region  
Trainee Application Form_

_Name: Michael Timothy Cunningham  
Sex: Male  
Hair: Brown  
Eyes: Blue  
Height: 185 centimetres  
Weight: 80 kilograms  
Date of Birth: __17 __November__ 1968  
Place of Birth: Bristol, United Kingdom_

_I certify that the above information is true, and I understand that the use of a false identity is a criminal offence. I hereby consent to be governed by the rules and regulations of the New South Wales Police Department for the duration of my training session and after._

_Signature & Date:  
_

Michael Cunningham read the last statement twice. He wondered why anybody would want to join the police service under a false identity, but he reasoned that any official document needed that statement. He flipped back through the several pages of paperwork, checking for any mistakes he had made. Finding none, he signed a slanting signature on the line and dated the document.

Michael perused through the papers yet again before depositing them in the box at the receptionist's desk. He walked past several other people busy filling out the same form and exited the room. Outside in the hallway were a few chairs, and he sat down next to another recruit who had completed his paperwork early.

"Hello," Michael said to him.

"Oh, g'day!" the man replied. "I'm Tom."

"And my name is Michael. Nice to meet you."

The man named Tom smiled. "So, I assume that you are actually Michael, and not an impostor?"

Michael smiled back. The other man had also taken notice of the intriguing statement at the end of the form. "Oh, damn! I've been discovered at last!" Michael proclaimed.

The two talked for a few minutes, and a few more recruits came into the hallway. They all made their introductions, and Michael tried getting to know them the best he could seeing that he would be spending the better part of three months training to be a police officer with them.

"All right," Michael said after a few minutes. "You are Tom, Dick… sorry, I forgot your name, Vicky, someone, Bill, James, someone, Kareem, Alice, and… erm…" he stumbled on the name of the balding man. "…Roger?"

"Bingo!" the balding man named Roger exclaimed. Michael felt genuinely proud of himself. He was horrible at remembering people's names, so remembering three-quarters of them after only fifteen minutes acquaintance was quite a feat for him.

After all of the introductions and several minutes of conversation, the recruit named Alice finally asked, "So, where do you come from? You don't sound like you're from here."

Tom rolled his eyes. "Amazing revelation! You finally noticed his British accent," he said sarcastically.

"Really, where are you from?" inquired Alice, completely unabashed.

"Well, as Tom so eloquently pointed out, I am from Britain," Michael answered. Tom smiled and raised his hand in acknowledgment. "I am from Somerset… in the southwest of England," Michael added, noticing that most of the others did not follow. "I just moved here to Sydney a few weeks ago."

"So, why did you decide to move to Oz?" asked the trainee named Dick.

Michael told the others about the freak hurricane that had hit the West Country a month earlier. The hurricane had hit his house and completely destroyed everything, but Michael was thankfully away somewhere else and was not there to witness it.

"…since I was left without a home and I had to live someplace new, I thought, 'Why not Australia? Fewer freak hurricanes there!'" he finished.

The others laughed. "And, of course, we have better weather, nicer people, fewer taxes, and more koalas! Australia sure beats England, doesn't it?" Tom asked.

Michael paused for a moment. "Well… I suppose," he finally muttered.

"HA!" Tom cried triumphantly. "We've just successfully converted a Pom!"

Before Michael could respond, the door to the hallway opened and a Police Superintendent appeared.

"Thank you for waiting, ladies and gentlemen, but more importantly, thank you for joining the New South Wales Police Department. Your training will begin shortly. Please follow me."

Michael Cunningham and the eleven other people in the hallway got up from their chairs and followed the man through the door.

The Superintendent was a tall blonde man who identified himself as Mr. Andrews. He and the dozen trainees discussed the New South Wales Police Department for the rest of the afternoon. They learned their obligations and training procedures, and what their careers would be like once they were admitted into the force as police officers. The meeting ended and the recruits got up to leave.

"Oh yes, Mr. Cunningham? Can I see you for a moment?"

Michael hung back and asked the Superintendent what he needed.

"The thing is, I need a copy of your birth certificate, and your application doesn't have one? Could you please provide me with a copy?"

Michael explained that he didn't have a copy. His house and everything he had owned, including all of his records, were destroyed in the freak hurricane the previous month. Mr. Andrews accepted this fact without hesitation.

"I'm sorry," said the Superintendent sympathetically. "Allow me to look into the British government records. I'm sure I could find a copy of your birth certificate for you."

"Thank you very much, sir."

* * *

Training to be a police officer wasn't quite as exciting as Michael Cunningham had imagined. The first few weeks didn't appear to have much to do with policing: the dozen police students studied for days on end everything there was to know about Australian law. Only after they thoroughly understood what they were supposed to do as officers did they begin to learn how to actually do it.

And learning how to do it was exactly what they were looking forward to: firearms training. They had gone over the rules for use of weapons and in what situations to use them, but now they were actually going to learn how to shoot them, and hopefully hit something in the process.

The shooting instructor was a tall, heavily built, bespectacled Senior Sergeant named Mr. Jordan. He pulled out a black handgun from the holster on his belt and held it in front of him for all of the trainees to see.

"This is a Glock 22, the gun you will be learning to shoot today. It is a semi-automatic handgun that fires the 40 calibre Smith & Wesson round. It weighs 650 grams and holds fifteen rounds of ammunition in the magazine. Now, who thinks they could remember everything I just said?"

Michael looked at the others and saw matching looks of bewilderment.

The shooting instructor smiled. "Don't worry, you will eventually," he said. "But let's not worry about that right now. I'm here at this range to teach you how to shoot, and I will."

Mr. Jordan spent the next few hours explaining the basics of gun safety. Most of what he said was just common sense to Michael, but some of the other recruits seemed to have trouble grasping these basic concepts. For Michael, it was pretty boring listening to Mr. Jordan explain gun safety; he had a strange feeling that he already knew everything that was being said.

Finally, Mr. Jordan instructed them on how to actually aim and fire the gun. It was very simple. To aim, all he had to do was balance the target on top of the blade front sight, and make sure the top of the front sight was at the same level as the top of the notched rear sight.

Each of the trainees was given a Glock and several full magazines of ammunition. Twenty meters from the firing line were a row of paper targets with a numbers on top of each target. Michael stood at station seven and examined the corresponding target.

"Now, since this is your first time shooting, don't worry if you can't hit anything. You'll get the hang of it eventually. Load your weapons and fire one complete magazine when I give the command," Mr. Jordan instructed. There was a flurry of movement as the dozen shooters inserted the fifteen-round magazines into the pistols and rocked back the slides. Michael steadied the gun in both hands, closed his left eye, and aimed.

"You may commence firing."

Michael was the first to pull the trigger. There was a bang and a flash, and the slide on the Glock jerked backwards and spat out a gleaming brass cartridge. The slide instantly returned to its position and Michael fired again, and then again…

Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam!

Michael was the first to finish shooting. The other trainees were taking much longer, struggling to keep their handguns steady and on target. Tom was blasting away and didn't seem to be aiming his weapon at all. Alice jumped every time she pulled the trigger. Roger was taking an agonizingly long time aiming each shot.

Finally, Roger was the last one to empty his pistol, and Mr. Jordan called a cease-fire. The instructor looked through a pair of binoculars at the targets. He panned from left to right, smiling or frowning as he examined each one. Then–

"Who's firing at target seven?"

"Me, Michael," Michael answered.

Senior Sergeant Jordan let out a low whistle. "Right. Everyone, put your guns down and look at your targets."

The recruits obeyed and walked the twenty meters to the paper targets. Michael looked at his target and was surprised to discover that he had gotten all fifteen rounds within the black circle. He had even scored a few bulls eyes. He glanced at the other targets and quickly discovered that nobody else even came close.

Mr. Jordan only had eyes for Michael's target. "Is this the first time you've ever shot a gun?" he asked.

"Yes."

Mr. Jordan looked taken aback, perhaps even a little sceptical, but he soon recovered. "Well, you are one amazing shot. You're a natural."

He then had the recruits take down the targets and replace them with new ones. Mr. Jordan borrowed Michael's target, disappeared for a moment, and reappeared with Mr. Andrews. Mr. Jordan had everyone fire off several more magazines of ammunition, and Mr. Andrews was watching Michael with interest.

After a good two hours and a few hundred rounds of ammunition, the firing lesson ended, and the recruits were asked to leave.

"Mr. Cunningham, would you mind staying for a moment?" the Superintendent inquired.

He was about to leave with the others, but he stopped and nodded. "Yes, is there something wrong?" Michael asked tentatively.

"No," was the response, this time by Mr. Jordan. "We're very impressed with your shooting. Would you like to try out some of the heavy stuff now?"

Michael wasn't expecting this at all, but excitement erupted in his face. "Yes sir! That does sound like fun."

The three moved down from the pistol shooting area to larger range where several police officers were practicing. Instead of boards with paper targets, there were metal silhouettes of people placed at various distances, and there were a few barrels and low wooden walls scattered here and there. Mr. Jordan opened a locker and presented Michael with a sleek, futuristic-looking assault rifle. Somehow, Michael instantly recognised it as a Steyr AUG. He pointed out this fact to the instructor and the Superintendent, and they both looked surprised.

"Actually, it's a F88 Austeyr, but it's simply an exact copy of the AUG. Very good, Mr. Cunningham," complimented Mr. Jordan. "I understand you've never shot before today, but do you think you know how to use this weapon?"

Michael gave the rifle a quick glance. It had an optical sight on top of a carrying rail, mounted on top of the barrel. There was a vertical front handgrip, and behind it was the pistol grip and trigger with a whole-hand trigger guard. Behind that was the body of the gun, made of a synthetic material, with the magazine well and port ejector on the right side. The weapon was a "bullpup" design, meaning that firing mechanism was located to the rear of the trigger, rather than in front which was more common.

It suddenly occurred to Michael that he had no idea how he knew what a "bullpup" design was, or what _optical sights_ and _port ejectors_ were for that matter. He knew absolutely nothing about guns, but the knowledge about the Austeyr had just suddenly appeared from some uncharted part of his brain the moment he laid eyes on the weapon. It was a very strange feeling…

"I think I can figure it out," he finally answered. He took the rifle and a translucent magazine of ammunition from Mr. Jordan's hands and muttered a few thanks.

The magazine was made of clear plastic and slightly curved. Michael told himself that it probably held 30 rounds of 5.56mm ammunition. How he knew that, he didn't know. Instead of dwelling on his mysterious firearms knowledge, he inserted the magazine in the magazine well behind the trigger assembly.

Without realising it, his right hand groped for a little knob towards the rear of the right side of the weapon. His hand felt around for a few moments before Michael noticed that the cocking handle wasn't there. He glanced down and spotted it on the _left_ side, up towards the front of the weapon. He gave the knob a pull with his left hand.

Instinct told him that the weapon was ready to fire now. He gripped the vertical front grip with his left, held the main grip with his right, and firmly placed the butt of the weapon against his right shoulder. The rifle felt strangely comfortable and even familiar, yet somewhat… _different_, all at the same time.

Michael peered through the tubular sight. In the middle of his sight picture was a little red dot. He placed the red dot on the centre of a metal silhouette and lightly pulled the trigger.

The rifle gave a short, sharp bark and there was a flash. It was much more impressive than the handgun he had been shooting earlier in the day. A loud metallic _ping!_ told him he had hit his target.

Michael only dimly heard the exclamations of the people watching him. He fired a quick burst at the silhouette again and a sharp rattle of clangs responded. Michael shifted his aim to some targets farther out and fired a few rounds at each. The rifle barked again and again, and ejected brass cartridge cases were soon scattered about at his feet.

The weapon stopped firing and Michael's hand automatically pressed the magazine release lever and pulled out the magazine with almost robot-like precision. He snatched another magazine lying on the firing table next to him and inserted it, pulled back the cocking handle, and resumed firing. He completely shot his way through the second magazine in very short order.

Michael repeated the reloading procedure, but he quickly noticed that there weren't any extra magazines to shoot. He looked at Mr. Jordan and Mr. Andrews, and both had identical expressions of amazement. Another police officer nearby whistled softly.

"Blimey, even I can't shoot that good," Mr. Jordan admitted after a long pause. He looked genuinely impressed. However, the Superintendent's expression was harder to read. He looked… _suspicious?_

"Where did you learn that?" Mr. Andrews inquired with suspicion in his voice: Michael's thoughts about the Superintendent's mood were confirmed. "You can't be a first-time shooter."

"I am. I was telling the truth," replied Michael quickly. His mind was much less certain. His skill and knowledge of firearms had come out of nowhere, but he was completely certain that he had never shot before in his life; guns were completely alien to him. _But clearly, they aren't now_, he thought to himself.

Mr. Andrews was still looking at him doubtfully. There was a long pause.

"I see."

* * *

"Excuse me, Mr. Cunningham? Can I have a word?"

Michael looked up from the quiz on lawful searches and seizures and noticed Mr. Andrews at the door. The other police students were still focused on their quizzes and didn't look up.

"Sure," Michael responded. He followed Mr. Andrews out the door into the hallway. They walked for several minutes through a maze of hallways, and Michael had no idea where Mr. Andrews was leading him.

Finally, they reached a door with a brass plaque that read:

**Superintendent S. Andrews**

**New South Wales Police Department**

**Inner Metropolitan Region**

His office. The superintendent had never brought any of the trainees into his office before, so Michael was inside for the first time. There was a large wooden desk with a clutter of picture frames, papers, and a lamp. Two policemen stood behind the desk along the wall.

There was a metallic click, and Michael saw Mr. Andrews withdraw a key from the now-locked door. He just noticed a third police officer standing by the door that he hadn't noticed when he walked in.

Mr. Andrews walked around his desk and seated himself. There weren't any chairs in front of the desk to sit in, so Michael stayed standing. He gave a furtive glace at the two officers at the wall in front of him, and the Superintendent sitting, his hands folded on the wooden desk.

_What is going on?_ he asked himself. _I'm not in trouble, am I?_

Michael remembered that he was locked in the Superintendent's office with Mr. Andrews himself and three police officers. For reasons unknown, he probably was in trouble.

"Now, Mr. Cunningham, is there anything you would like to tell us?" Mr. Andrews questioned.

"I beg your pardon?" Michael replied.

"What are you up to? What are you trying to hide from us?"

Michael couldn't believe what was happening. Mr. Andrews was… _was he treating him like a spy?_ "Nothing," he answered simply, but with a hint of nervousness in his voice.

Mr. Andrews noticed, and his eyebrows rose ever so slightly. "Please, tell me the truth."

"I am telling you the truth. I have no idea what you're talking about. Are you suspecting me of something?" insisted Michael. Anger was beginning to simmer…

"That I am," Mr. Andrews stated, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You don't seem to be the terrorist or spy type, but I can never be too sure. Mr. Cunningham… you are very suspicious."

Michael wanted to shout out and prove that he wasn't so, but he restrained himself. As calmly as he could, he said, "How so?"

"Why are you asking me? You know the answer yourself," was the reply.

Michael was about to say he didn't know the answer and that had no idea what he was talking about when a disconcerting thought erupted. He remembered the shooting training earlier in the week…

Mr. Andrews seemed to have read his mind and explained to Michael how he insisted that he had never touched a gun in his life before, and how he somehow was able to outshoot even Mr. Jordan, and mysteriously knew how to operate the rifles without any instruction at all.

"But how is that make me suspicious?" Michael urged, desperate to have Mr. Andrews see how ridiculous the whole matter was. "Mr. Jordan said I was just a natural shot."

Mr. Andrews nodded, and Michael felt hopeful for the shortest of moments. He was soon disappointed as the Superintendent continued.

"You very well could be, but I have a much better reason for dragging you in here to my office."

"What?"

Mr. Andrews didn't answer but instead, he opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a thin stack of forms. He turned it around for Michael to read and pushed it to the end of the desk for him to reach.

"Mr. Cunningham, would you please read the concluding statement on this form?"

Michael picked up the sheets and discovered that it was his application to police training. He flipped to the last page and found the paragraph. An impossible thought entered his mind: _Is Mr. Andrews thinking what I think he's thinking?_ Michael read the requested statement:

_I certify that the above information is true, and I understand that the use of a false identity is a criminal offence. I hereby consent to be governed by the rules and regulations of the New South Wales Police Department for the duration of my training session and after._

After the paragraph on the line was his signature and the date he signed it. He slowly placed the form back on the desk.

"Remember on your first day here, I asked for a copy of your birth certificate? You said you didn't have one due to the hurricane, and I said I would find a copy for you in the records, correct?"

Michael nodded slowly. The bottom of his stomach seemed to have dropped. He suddenly understood where this conversation was going…

The Superintendent continued. "I made a most startling discovery Mr. Michael Timothy Cunningham. I'll say it to you slowly: you… don't… exist. You have no birth certificate. The British government doesn't have one either. There is no Mr. Cunningham, Mr. Cunningham; there is nobody who meets your description, I'm afraid."

"But… that's impossible!" Michael stammered. "My name is–"

"It isn't," Mr. Andrews interrupted. "Please tell me the truth. Who are you really?"

"My name is Michael Timothy Cunningham, sir. I certainly am who I say I am."

The Superintendent obviously didn't believe him, and the position of his eyebrows on his forehead proved that fact. Several seconds passed in silence…

"Indeed. Well then, Mr. Cunningham, I hope you wouldn't mind if you submit to questioning then?"

"No, I wouldn't mind at all. Go right ahead," responded Michael quickly.

Mr. Andrews nodded, looking past Michael's shoulder. A second or two later, Michael felt a hand land on his right shoulder.

He wasn't even aware that he was doing it. Without planning it, without any thoughts at all, Michael's right hand shot up from his sides and grabbed the arm holding him. His left hand soon followed, reaching over his shoulder and also grabbing the arm. He gave his hands a savage twist and pulled as hard as he could. There was a yell and the policeman behind Michael was dragged forward, his arm pointed in an unnatural angle. Michael rotated himself anticlockwise and the man was lifted off his feet. As he came around, Michael kneed him hard in the stomach and he wrenched his right hand free of the man's arm. He bent his arm and struck the back of the man's neck with a sharp elbow. There was a shout of pain, and the police officer crashed to the ground.

Reality caught up to Michael. He was stunned. He had just beaten the stuffing out of a police officer in less than three seconds, and had only realised he had done so _after_ he did it. He was then suddenly aware of the two policemen at the wall behind the desk, Glock 22s drawn and aimed strait at Michael's head: officers were trained to shoot at centre mass, but the two policemen were clearly aiming to kill. There was a very long, tense pause. The air had gone very still.

"Mr. Cunningham, is there something you would like to tell us?" Mr. Andrews demanded as calmly as he could for the second time.

Michael Cunningham's life had just gotten very complicated.

* * *

**Notes**

For those of you unfamiliar with the wonderful metric system, Michael is about six feet, one inch tall, and weighs about 180 pounds.

**F88 Austeyr:** This is the assault rifle used by the Australian Army and some Australian police units, and as mentioned in the text, it is an almost exact copy of the Austrian Steyr AUG. Conceptually, the F88 it is quite similar to the L85 rifle used by the British Army, which explains why Michael (or Archer Price before his memory was modified) is able to use the weapon with ease.

Thank you for reading, and please leave a review if you so desire. I apologise for the lack of magic in this chapter, but do not fear! Michael will have a run-in with magic again in later chapters.

Pseudonym Sam


	3. Chapter III: Revelations

**Chapter III: Revelations**

It could have been worse.

Michael was eternally grateful that there were no racks, thumbscrews, hot needles, whips, iron maidens, or any other unpleasant instruments of information extraction. For the longest time, he had always considered the word "interrogate" to be synonymous with "torture." He had thought of the Spanish Inquisition, with mad monks gleefully prodding shrieking prisoners with hot pokers. He had thought of sausage-eating Nazis pinching with pliers, screaming _"Ve haff vays of making you TALK!"_

Interrogation was nothing like that. There was only one word that adequately described it. It was… _boring_, of all things. Every day, they asked him the same questions, and every day, he gave the same answers.

"Now, let's see if we can get anywhere today. Who are you?" asked the Superintendent time and time again.

"I'm telling you, my name is Michael Timothy Cunningham," Michael always responded.

Mr. Andrews, the Superintendent, didn't believe him. He never did, and why should he? To the Superintendent and the rest of the New South Wales Police Department, Michael Cunningham was trouble. To begin with, he officially didn't exist. Michael had only his word to certify who he actually was, because he had no birth certificate, and absolutely none of the Michael Cunninghams in the world matched his description.

That in of itself was enough for Mr. Andrews to suspect him for being up to no good – but no, there was more. Michael had sworn up and down that he had no shooting experience at all, but he mysteriously knew everything there was to know about guns and to his surprise was a first-class shot. And, of course, assaulting a police officer with absurd ease did not help him in the slightest.

That was what did Michael in. His firearms expertise was unusual, his lack of credentials was incredibly suspicious, but beating up the policeman in the Superintendent's office was downright alarming. Whether he liked it or not, Michael had proven himself to be a very dangerous individual indeed.

However, the most maddening thing for Michael was that he had no idea that he was capable of such feats. He _had_ never used a gun in his life before, but he somehow managed to accurately hit every target and instinctively knew how to use weapons without any instruction. Most disturbing however, was how quickly and easily he dispatched the policeman in the Superintendent's office. The worst part of it was that he wasn't even conscious of doing so until after he had done it.

Lost in his thoughts, Michael sat on his mattress; a bland foam pad thing on a simple frame of aluminium tubing. There was a plain sink and a cold, steel toilet nearby, and above it was a barred window. The cell was quite dull, but it didn't seem to bother Michael at all. In fact, the plain bed and the room's brutal simplicity seemed familiar and inviting, of all things. _Just wonderful. I must be going mad_, he mused.

Michael sat on the bed, staring at the wall and thinking of nothing in particular for several hours. He hardly noticed the steel door opening and the Superintendent waiting at the opening.

"It's time for questioning, again," he said simply.

Michael grunted, acknowledging that unpleasant reality.

The Superintendent was accompanied by two others, as usual. They walked Michael down the hallway to the interrogation room. The name sounded ominous, but it was just another plain, whitewashed room with nothing spectacular about it.

Without waiting for an invitation or instruction, Michael seated himself in the chair in front of the desk in the middle of the room. On top of the desk was a recording device and a polygraph apparatus, or a lie detector in plain English. Mr. Andrews took a seat while one of his companions strapped the sensor components of the polygraph to Michael's body. The lie detector measured his pulse rate, blood pressure, and breath rate to detect anxiety, and – by extension – lying. Michael suspected that it wasn't all that reliable, and was instead used for its intimidating effect. Who wouldn't feel slightly anxious strapped to a machine with sharp needles, scribbling black slashes on a treadmill-like roving piece of paper?

One of the policemen stood at the door, while the one who fixed the lie detector sensors on Michael sat down at the back of the room with the polygraph's chart recorder. The Superintendent switched on the tape recorder and stated, "Testing. This is Superintendent Andrews of the New South Wales Police Department, Inner Metropolitan District, questioning Mr. Michael Timothy Cunningham."

"Now, Mr. Cunningham, _if that's who you really are_, let's see if we can get anywhere today. Are you ready to give us some answers?"

Michael said nothing. He had gone through this many times. The room was silent except for the soft whirring of the spinning tape in the recording device. _This bloke is very persistent, isn't he?_ his brain suggested stupidly for the hundredth time.

The seconds crawled by. The Superintendent rapped his fingers on the desk, getting impatient. A few more moments passed in silence before he finally said, "You know, we could go on forever… but I'd _rather_ not. I have so many things I'd much rather be doing, and I presume you'd much rather not live in a cell and be interrogated every day. You do want to get out of here eventually, don't you?

Michael finally spoke. "Of course I do," he replied indignantly.

"Then give me some answers. Who are you?"

"I've told you a thousand times, my name is Michael Timothy Cunningham. That hasn't changed, and it never will change, because that's who I am. It's as simple as that," he recited.

"Can anyone else verify who you are, because if not, you are only Mr. Cunningham because you say you are? According to the British government records, you don't exist. Now why would that be? Answer me that."

Michael had no idea, and let the Superintendent know.

"I have a theory," Mr. Andrews asserted. "It's unlikely, but it's the only one that makes sense right now. I think you could be a British spy. As to why they would want to spy on Australia, I have no idea, but you see, people just don't _disappear_ off the birth registry. If you really are Michael Cunningham, then you probably don't exist because the British government doesn't _want_ anybody to know that you do. Do you follow?"

Michael understood perfectly, but he definitely didn't like anything Mr. Andrews had said. If the Superintendent was only saying that to make him nervous and betray his non-existent secrets, it didn't work. Judging from the polygraph operator's bored expression, and the completely still needles on the device, Michael offered no indication that he was hiding anything.

"You intrigue me, Mr. Cunningham," the Superintendent continued. "You could certainly be a spy… or perhaps not. You've demonstrated expertise with firearms and hand-to-hand combat, but you have an appalling cover story. Why would a British spy want to join an Australian police service?"

Michael managed to pull a slight smile. That notion was quite ridiculous, so he said, "I don't know. There's no real point, is there?"

"Exactly, Mr. Cunningham. Exactly. But seeing that you aren't being more helpful with your answers, you being a British spy is the only theory that even makes the slightest amount of sense."

If that was the most plausible theory, Michael wondered how bad the rest of them must have been.

"So, please tell me, why did you decide to move to Australia?" Mr. Andrews questioned.

He had been asked this question several times, and the answer – still – was the same. The exasperation was evident in Michael's voice.

"Once again, a freak hurricane destroyed everything I owned, and since I had to start from scratch, I thought I'd like to move to Australia. It's a nice place."

Mr. Andrews had heard that response many times before. Nothing had changed. Or had it?

"But why Australia?" he asked.

"I'm sorry?"

"Why Australia?" the Superintendent repeated. "Why not Hawaii… or say, Zimbabwe? How come you decided to move to Australia and not someplace else?"

"Well, I…" Michael paused. Now that he thought about it, he had never really considered why he wanted to go _specifically_ to Australia. He just… _wanted_ to go. He had never thought it through at all; the desire was just there. Why _did_ he decide to go to Australia?

The Superintendent watched Michael expectantly. A few seconds dragged on in silence.

"Yes…?" Mr. Andrews insisted.

Michael didn't really know what to say. He didn't want to be interrogated forever, day after day, week after week. His mind raced. If he said that he just liked Australia, which was the truth, Mr. Andrews would probably not be satisfied and the questions would just drag on. But… what if he tried something different? Michael decided to tell him the truth.

"I don't know," he confessed.

"I'm sorry?" Mr. Andrews asked, surprised.

"I have no idea why. I just… did."

The Superintendent was taken aback. He hadn't expected this. Neither did the polygraph operator, who looked up from his boring, still inactive machine to look at Michael with a puzzled expression.

"Could you please elaborate?"

Michael said nothing. He couldn't really elaborate, and Mr. Andrews seemed to notice.

"All right," he said. "I think that's enough excitement for today. Hopefully you'll gather your thoughts together for tomorrow." The Superintendent's voice sounded less harsh, but that was probably out of surprise for the sudden change in Michael's answers.

The lie detector operator removed the numerous sensors from Michael's body, and he was led out of the room back to his cell.

* * *

The phalanx had broken. Before, Michael's answers were a solid wall that easily beat back every one of the Superintendent's questions. No longer. That one question attacked and found a weak spot in the line, and now Mr. Andrews was eager to exploit it.

For the next week, Michael was called back and forth to the interrogation room. Mr. Andrews asked only a few probing questions each time, and when Michael was unable to answer, he was sent back to his cell only to be interrogated the next day.

And Michael was increasingly unable to answer Mr. Andrews's enquiries. He couldn't answer why he wanted to move to Australia, or why he decided to join the police service. Michael just _did_, and he couldn't find any way to adequately say that. The questions were becoming more abstract and seemingly unrelated to the investigation.

And one of those irrelevant questions asked was outright disturbing to Michael: the Superintendent asked him to describe his family.

Michael told him about his mother and father and other family members and their professions and such. It was easy, and the information just flowed from his head and out of his mouth. However, Mr. Andrews then asked Michael to tell him about his favourite memories of them.

Only after the question was asked did Michael realise that he had none. The realisation hit him like running strait into a brick wall. To his horror, Michael was suddenly aware that his parents were just that. They weren't people. They were just names to him. He had no idea who they were, what they looked like, what annoyed them, what their favourite colours were, how they smiled, what they liked to eat, or… _anything_.

Michael barely noticed that he was dismissed and was back in his cell. He racked his memory for any memories, any thoughts or vague ideas of who his family really was. He had no success.

Michael slept uneasily that night.

_I'm going mad_, he despairingly told himself. He couldn't remember his family. He had no idea why he decided to move to Australia. His mysterious fighting skills came out of nowhere. _What was happening to Michael Timothy Cunningham?_

He woke with a start and sat bolt upright in his cot. He was sweating and couldn't remember being more frightened in his life… _because he had never had one_.

He was terrified with his second disturbing revelation. First he realised that he knew nothing of his family. But far, far worse was knowing nothing about _himself_.

Michael Timothy Cunningham was just Michael Timothy Cunningham. He had brown hair and blue eyes. He was 185 centimetres tall and weighed 80 kilograms. He was born in Bristol, United Kingdom, on the 17th of November, 1968.

But who exactly was he? _Who am I?_ He had a name and birthday. Did he have anything else? He had nothing. He knew nothing. He didn't know what he liked to do as a boy. He couldn't remember what school he went to, or who his best friends were. He had no knowledge of his own hobbies, or any favourite memories. He was just a name with no past.

Before he knew it, sunlight was streaming through the small window, and the lights came on. A tray with his bland, uninspired breakfast was inserted through the slot in the steel door, but he paid no attention to it. He wasn't hungry. The hours flew by, and soon enough, the door opened yet again and he was called out for questioning.

He didn't object as he was led down the hallways to the interrogation room, or when the lie detector sensors were strapped to his body. He just sat in the chair and looked at his feet.

"So, Mr. Cunningham, are you ready to give us some answers today?" the Superintendent questioned.

He didn't reply. He didn't need to.

Mr. Andrews commenced the questioning regardless. "I'm tired of asking you this question every day, but who the hell are you?"

Michael answered truthfully.

"I don't know, sir."

There was a very long pause. He was suddenly aware of how quiet the room was, as if everyone had stopped breathing. Even the tape recorder seemed to stop making noise.

"I'm sorry, can you repeat that?" Mr. Andrews insisted.

"I don't know who I am, sir."

"Aren't you Michael Timothy Cunningham?"

"I'm not sure," he admitted.

"So… if you're not Mr. Cunningham, then who are you?"

Truth be told, he had no idea. He didn't think it was possible, but he wanted to know who he was much more than the Superintendent did. "I told you, I don't know," he implored.

The Superintendent was nonplussed by this sudden turn in events. At any rate, he certainly looked confused. Mr Andrews stammered, "Well… you must have some idea. Don't you?"

"No," he said resolutely. "My mind tells me my name is Michael Cunningham, but that's all I know about myself." Michael proceeded to explain everything, holding nothing back. He told him how his combat skills came spontaneously and naturally to him. He had a mysterious scar on his left thigh that looked suspiciously like a bullet wound. He described his unexplained desire to move to Australia. He described how he knew nothing about himself, how he was just a name. How he had no past, how he had no story to tell.

Mr. Andrews said nothing during the entirety of his confession. It was perhaps more out of shock than anything else, but after the unexpected blow had subsided, he listened intently, giving him his undivided attention.

* * *

Things were looking better. Michael wasn't confined to a locked cell anymore. He now had a room of his own with proper furnishing, which was certainly an improvement. In addition, he wasn't treated like a bomb that might go off or some dangerous, shadowy person with questionable motives anymore. To them, he was just a very unusual, confused man in need of help.

But appearances were deceiving. For him, life had gotten worse. When the whole debacle started, he was questioned every day and treated with suspicion, but he at least _thought_ he knew who he was. He had resolutely declared to the Superintendent every day that he was Michael Cunningham, and had thought the investigation was ridiculous. Now he was still questioned every day, but despite the improved circumstances, he was positively alarmed that he didn't even know himself. His mind told him that he was a man named Michael, but he didn't believe it.

He was desperate for answers, but he was no closer to getting any. Instead of being questioned by the Superintendent anymore, he was instead interviewed by somewhat drippy psychologist.

"Hello, sir," Michael said to him.

"Please, call me Roger," he replied genially. "I'm here to help you with your problem."

Roger the Psychologist annoyed him. Roger asked him about all of his problems, and he earnestly told him everything… but Roger the Psychologist just nodded and smiled and said things like "how interesting," or "I'm sorry you feel that way."

It was aggravating. Roger didn't appear to be genuinely concerned for Michael's sanity. Instead, he treated him like some fascinating puzzle that needed to be solved. Roger the Psychologist didn't seem to care about his tainted sanity; that he thought he was losing his mind. He understood very little of how he felt.

But Roger was at least very diligent at the task that had been given him. He asked him to both describe his _problem_ in intimate detail, and also asked questions that made no sense at all. He held up a picture of a strange black blob for Michael to look at. "Tell me what you think this looks like," the psychologist asked.

Michael knew nothing about psychology, and had no idea what the point of the pointless exercise was. It was stupid, that's what it was.

"It looks like a black blob," he said.

"Very good Michael," Roger replied kindly. "But look at it very carefully. Does this black blob remind you of anything?"

Michael couldn't imagine what a dark splat could remind him of besides a dark splat, but he looked intently at the picture nonetheless. He was irked by the seemingly nonsensical process, but he figured that Roger knew what he was doing more than he did. The top of the blob, with a bit of imagination, looked like a head with a hood of some sort, and the bigger splodge below it could be a body wrapped in a cloak. He told Roger the Psychologist what he thought it looked like.

"That's better," he soothed. He then picked out another picture. "What does this look like?"

"A really big fellow with a squashed head."

Roger showed Michael more pictures of artistic splats. "A tank… a long pointy stick…"

The strange and vexing questions continued, and though Michael had no idea what they were supposed to achieve, he answered nonetheless and truthfully. Roger the Psychologist alternated between techniques every few interviews. He would ask Michael to try to remember his past for several days, switch to irrelevant psychological questions, and then back again.

Roger took particular interest in the freak hurricane that had destroyed Michael's home a few months earlier. He asked him to describe the hurricane, but Michael could not. He wasn't there to witness it in action, though did he remember its aftermath. There were houses ripped apart, bent lampposts, cars scattered about, bodies, scorch marks, bullet holes in walls, destroyed Army vehicles…

Only later did Michael notice what the freak hurricane had really done. He had racked his memory, trying to extract any recollections of why he was away at the time, but found nothing. He hadn't seen it not because he wasn't there to witness it, but because he couldn't _remember_ it at all. He had no memories of life before it had happened, but he did for after. It was as if Michael's life started on the very day the freak hurricane decided to ravage Somerset with its peculiar path of destruction.

And peculiar it was. Michael had seen what the hurricane had done, and now he realised that the damage inflicted was baffling. For starters, hurricanes didn't create bullet holes in walls. Only bullets did, and that was why bullet holes were called just that. Furthermore, he had no idea why destroyed British Army tanks and personnel carriers would be right in the middle of a hurricane impact. Besides, hurricanes also didn't create craters in the road, flatten cars like squashed bugs, or completely demolish one house but leaving the house directly next to it completely undamaged. It just didn't make sense.

Smiling to himself, Michael told Roger the Psychologist about his interesting discovery. It was strangely ironic; Michael had been probed for information for weeks on end, but now he himself was doing his own detective work.

Roger's eyes lit up. Michael could see the little cogs and levers spinning and rocking in the psychologist's head. They discussed the meaning of his discovery, and for the first time, Michael wasn't annoyed with him.

* * *

Michael was in the Superintendent's office for the second time. The scenery hadn't changed. Mr. Andrews was seated in his leather chair behind his desk, flanked by two police officers standing at the wall behind him. Another officer guarded the door. However, now there were two chairs in front of Mr. Andrew's desk, occupied by Roger and Michael.

"So, I understand that you've made progress with Mr. Cunningham here?" asked the Superintendent.

"Yes I have. I have determined that Mr. Michael Cunningham is not dangerous. He's just very confused and can't–"

"We've already gone over this," Mr. Andrews interrupted. "Is there anything new you'd like to tell me?"

"Erm, yes," Roger said. "Michael apparently has no reminiscences of life prior to the hurricane incident a few months back. I think that the hurricane was a traumatic experience for Michael here, and it somehow affected his brain. Either he got hit in the head by something and suffered some brain damage, or his mind voluntarily shut out all memory of the event somehow."

The Superintendent nodded. "I see, but that still doesn't explain why Michael doesn't have a birth certificate."

That was still an unexplained problem, but it was Michael, not the psychologist, who came up with a possible explanation. He told Mr. Andrews his idea: that he probably had an actual certified identity, but the hurricane had not only removed his memories, but had also somehow given him the false name of Michael Cunningham.

Mr. Andrews listened, but he looked slightly sceptical. When Michael finished his account, the Superintendent remarked, "I see. I never thought adverse weather could do such a thing. That must have been quite some hurricane, Mr. Cunningham."

"It was a very unusual hurricane to begin with," explained Michael.

"Really?"

"Well… I have a rather interesting theory," Michael said.

Mr. Andrews looked intrigued. "Tell me all…"

* * *

Anyway, thank you for reading. I'm again sorry for the lack of magic in this chapter, but don't worry. Magic returns for chapter four!

Pseudonym Sam


	4. Chapter IV: A Warm Welcome

**Chapter IV: A Warm Welcome**

Michael explained to the Superintendent his theory about his past. He didn't know much, if anything, about the fine (though woolly) art of psychology, so Roger took over when that aspect was discussed. Michael described to Mr. Andrews how he had no memories prior to the hurricane, and that the suspicious nature of the hurricane could provide clues to who he really was, if not Mr. Michael Cunningham.

"Interesting. If it is correct, that would explain quite a few things," Mr. Andrews stated simply once they were finished. "Now, do you have any way of testing this theory of yours?"

"Well… yes," Michael said. "I was hoping that you could help me."

There was a short pause. Mr. Andrews looked slightly annoyed.

"Dammit, Michael," the Superintendent complained. "I was hoping you wouldn't ask me that."

Michael wasn't deterred. He simply added, "So… will you?"

The Superintendent scrutinised Michael for a moment. He could tell he was considering his answer; weighing his options. Michael had a shrewd idea that Mr. Andrews desperately didn't want to go through another bout of interrogations, but felt obligated to do so at the same time. After all, he was supposed to help people in need being a police officer – no, a Superintendent – of the New South Wales Police Department, Inner Metropolitan Region.

"Fine," he agreed heavily. "I suppose I should have seen this coming. I had gotten so used to questioning you, it was positively alarming when I handed you over to this psychologist here. It will be quite welcoming to lock you in my office again," Mr. Andrews finished with a wry smile. Michael could tell it took the Superintendent great effort to agree to that.

"Thank you," was all Michael could say.

"Don't mention it. Now, Roger?" the Superintendent said to the psychologist. Getting his attention, he continued, "I don't mean to insult your intelligence, but I think that I would be better suited to this task. I'll let you know if I need you, though."

"Oh, that's just grand," Roger said eagerly. "I'd love to help if you need me. Just give me a call, and I'll be there."

"Okay, that's enough…" there was a pause. "Actually, Roger? Could you perhaps do a scan of Michael's brain? You mentioned something about brain damage a few minutes ago."

"I guess I could," Roger replied. "However, I am a psychologist, not a psychiatrist. I may not be the correct person to do that."

Michael had no idea what the difference between a psychologist and a psychiatrist was. Mr. Andrews seemed to know, but caring about it was a different matter.

"I'm sure you're perfectly qualified," Mr. Andrews said with finality. "Now, Michael… I have work to do at the moment, but I guess we could have a little chat later. Does three o'clock Tuesday afternoon sound good?"

Michael agreed to the time, and was dismissed back to his room. Only then did he realise that he had actually been _asked_ for his opinion about the scheduling of the interview, rather than having the Superintendent make an appointment for him. It was a good feeling.

* * *

Two days later, Roger took Michael to a public hospital to examine his brain. There was a large x-ray like machine that wrapped around Michael's head, scanning it from multiple directions. Michael and Roger waited about half an hour for the doctor to return with the prints, showing Michael's brain in both black and white and what looked like infrared colours.

The doctor did most of the explaining, and Michael and Roger spent most the time nodding to whatever the doctor was saying. Apparently, Roger the Psychologist was in fact a psychologist, not a psychiatrist… _whatever the hell that was_.

Though both Roger and Michael (mostly Michael, however) only understood about half of what the doctor was saying, they found out that Michael's brain was perfectly fine and functioning. There was no sign of damage from any kind of concussion, so that was a comforting fact. However, as the brain-damage theory was now void, Roger had to figure out how Michael managed to wipe his own memory and give himself a new name.

The next day was Michael's appointment with Mr. Andrews. It was strange, walking to the Superintendent's office on his own accord. He was used to being flanked by several police officers, or Roger the Psychologist, or the Superintendent himself. He approached the door, with the brass plaque and knocked.

Michael heard a muffled "Come in," through the door. Michael turned the knob and opened it.

The scenery still hadn't changed. There were still two police officers at the back of the room and one guarding the door. Michael took a seat in the chair in front of the desk.

"So, Michael," addressed the Superintendent. "According to this theory of yours, you are former British Army personnel who happened to witness a rather traumatic freak hurricane that wiped your memory and implanted into you a new identity."

"Well, yes. However, I believe that the hurricane could have been more of a battle than an actual hurricane."

"Because of the bullet holes and military hardware scattered about?"

"Precisely, but I don't think there was an actual hurricane to begin with. Why would the British Army storm into some West Country town and shoot up the place? Perhaps the hurricane was just a cover-up for some kind of fight the government was embarrassed about."

Mr. Andrews' eyebrows rose with his characteristic expression of scepticism. "I'm not questioning you to hear any conspiracy theories," he stated firmly. "I'm here to see whether you were in the British Army or not. If you are, that would explain a few things, namely your proficiency with shooting and close-quarters fighting."

With that said, Mr. Andrews pulled out a thick stack of pictures from a drawer and placed them on top of his desk.

"You're not going to have me interpret colourful splats again, are you?"

The Superintendent smiled. "No. Unlike your chum Roger, I'm not a psychologist, so I have no idea what that's supposed to accomplish. I actually think you might enjoy this."

He pulled out the first picture in the stack and showed it to Michael. "Let's play British Army Pictionary! Tell me, what military rank is this?"

It was a picture of two downward-pointing, olive-coloured chevrons. Michael instantly recognised it, and he wasn't surprised that he had the knowledge.

"Sergeant," he answered.

"Good. Now, what kind of rifle is this?" Mr. Andrews said next, displaying a picture of a rather blocky assault rifle in bullpup configuration.

"That's easy. It's an L85A1," he said, stating the incredibly obvious… _to him, at least_. Michael then proceeded to explain the various details of the weapon, such as ammunition type, maximum effective range, and such.

"Good. That's enough. I can see that you recognise it. Now, what about this?" the Superintendent asked while showing another picture… and another…

"…Challenger Main Battle Tank… Lieutenant General… Saxon Armoured Personnel Carrier…"

Needless to say, Michael easily passed, as he did with every subsequent test over the next few days. "Well, unless you had a rather unhealthy obsession with the workings of the British Army," Mr. Andrews declared, "I would say that you were indeed a soldier before the hurricane, Michael."

Michael suspected that was the case, but it needed to be "official." Later in the week, the Superintendent presented Michael a sheet of paper.

"Now, Michael, I have homework for you. Please look over this list and let me know if any of the names look familiar," he said before leaving Michael alone again in his room.

The sheet was a list of people in the West Country who died or went missing during the freak hurricane over the summer. Michael flipped through a few pages until he got to the list of British Army casualties.

…_Stanley D. Brown, Private; dead_

_Jonathan L. Clynes, Lance Corporal; dead_

_Thomas L. Donavan, Private; missing, presumed dead _

_Geoffrey A. George, Lieutenant; missing, presumed dead_…

Michael didn't recognise any of the names. He was disappointed by the lack of a sudden burst of understanding. Previously, he had suddenly remembered information when presented with related material, but there was no such luck with the list. There were about thirty names in all, arranged in alphabetical order.

…_Charles T. MacDonald, Private; dead_

_Archer R. Price, Sergeant; missing, presumed dead_

_David M. Smith, Corporal; dead_

_Morgan G. Williams, Private; missing, presumed dead_…

Michael noticed that all of the names were either dead or missing (i.e., also dead). Not a single name was listed as having been wounded or injured. He found that distinctly odd…

Michael figured that if his name was on the list (which it probably was), he would be classified as _missing, presumed dead_. This category took up a little more than half of names on the list. Unfortunately, Michael still didn't recognise the any of the names of the sixteen lieutenants, sergeants, corporals, or privates listed as "missing." _Just wonderful. I've thoroughly forgotten who I am. And how many of those "missing" men ended up in the mess I'm in now?_

* * *

The Superintendent had mixed feelings when Michael told him that he didn't recognise any of the names on the list. He was disappointed that Michael hadn't come any closer to discovering who he was. He was also relieved that he didn't have to do any more questioning, so he promptly handed him over to Roger the Psychologist.

Unlike Mr. Andrews, Roger was eager to resume working on Michael. He could tell the psychologist was overly keen to solve the very complex puzzle that was Michael's predicament.

"The way I see it," explained Roger to both Mr. Andrews and Michael during a meeting in the Superintendent's office, "is that the majority of Michael's memory hasn't disappeared, but has instead been locked away. Over the last month or two, we've discovered that things relevant to the memories act as keys that can unlock them, so those memories resurface."

"So what exactly are you suggesting?" asked Mr. Andrews.

"I'm suggesting that I take Michael on a trip to England, to the scene of the hurricane. Hopefully, visiting that place will act as the correct key to release Michael's memory, so we just might find out who he really is, if not Mr. Cunningham."

The Superintendent nodded. "While you're at it, you should look into the British Army records to see if anybody matches Michael's descriptions. The resources we have here are quite limited, you see."

With that, Mr. Andrews agreed to Roger the Psychologist's proposal. Three days later, Michael and Roger packed their bags and took a taxi to Kingsford Smith International Airport and waited a few hours before they boarded the lower deck of a _Qantas Airways_ Boeing 474-400.

Michael took a window seat, and Roger sat in the seat next to him. Michael pulled out the safety manual for the aircraft. The laminated pamphlet detailed passenger crash positions, how to use the life vests, unloading procedures, and every other emergency protocol that optimistically assumed that everyone would survive to abandon the plane if it crashed. Realistically, the best thing to do during a crash would be to pray for a quick death when the airliner became an exploding fireball.

Nevertheless, Michael read the pamphlet all the way through and spotted the emergency exits closest to himself. It was always good to have an escape plan, even if it was no good; Michael suspected this instinct was a carryover from his forgotten years in the military.

"Nervous?" asked Roger, seeing Michael reading the pamphlet.

"No, I'm not," he responded.

"That's good. Did you know that flying is actually the safest way to travel?"

"No, I didn't."

"Well, now you do," said Roger, starting to irritate Michael again. He continued, talking about how the trip to Britain could finally help solve the fascinating puzzle of Michael's memory, but he wasn't listening to him, and he didn't notice when Roger stopped talking.

The passenger in front of Michael reclined his seat, and the back of the seat pressed painfully against Michael's knees. _You git_, he thought to himself. _You're only supposed to recline once we're airborne. Plus, you're hurting my legs_.

The seat pushed firmly against his knees, and was starting to make his legs feel a little numb with the reduced circulation. Michael sat there annoyed for about a minute or two, revelling in his revulsion for the bane of humanity occupied in the seat in front of him.

Then he had a sudden spurt of inspiration.

Smiling maliciously, Michael reached his hand up to the overhead air-conditioning nozzle and aimed it at the top of the chair-leaning offender's bald head. He twisted the nozzle until it was on full blast.

Amused (and now sufficiently distracted from the aching in his knees), Michael watched his handiwork in action. The passenger in front of him started shifting slightly, clearly uncomfortable. He tried jamming his head against the headrest, or tried hunching over. Though Michael felt the tiniest twinge of regret for causing the man discomfort, it was the perfect revenge. Finally, after a few vain minutes of trying to ignore the chilling breeze on the top of his shiny head, the bald passenger returned his seat to its upright position.

A few more uneventful minutes of waiting passed in boredom until the engines of the plane accelerated to full power. The 747 lumbered down the runway, picking up speed. Michael looked out the tiny window, watching the other planes and terminals hurtle pass, and soon enough they were airborne. The plane climbed south over Botany Bay, and the hundreds of sailing boats in the clear blue water were an amazing sight to behold. Michael wanted to see Sydney from the air as the plane made its turn northwest, but saw only ocean, having been seated on the starboard side.

The view of the ocean was pristine and picture-perfect, but got boring pretty quickly. Michael reached into his bag and pulled out a copy of _The Lord of the Rings, the Fellowship of the Ring_ that he had bought at the bookstore earlier. He opened to the first chapter and started to read.

He only got through ten pages before he put the book down.

When he started reading it, he had a strange feeling that he already knew everything about the book. In fact, he _did_. He already knew who all of the characters were, and what happened to them. He also knew that Frodo finally threw the ring into Mount Doom in the third book, and everyone lived happily ever after. Apparently, Michael had read the series before, but forgot he had done so when he lost his memory. Now that he had the book as the reminder, all of the details came flooding back into his mind; _just like how the Ents flooded Isengard_, Michael thought wryly to himself.

He makes another brave attempt to read the book he had read before in some forgotten past, but he didn't get far. It was _boring_, being so familiar. Besides, he already knew the entire plotline for the entire series, and nothing could surprise him. Disappointed, he marked his page and put the book away, pushed the seat recline button (without thinking of how the passenger behind him was suffering), and fell asleep… for a bit.

The 747-400 stopped in Bankok for about an hour and a half to refuel before taking off again. Michael drifted from eating appalling aeroplane food to lazily watching in-flight movies to sleeping intermittently. His legs were numb yet restless for exercise, but he couldn't do anything about that aside from walking down to the toilets and back. He couldn't do anything about his sore arse either. Fading into semi-consciousness hardly nullified the unpleasantness, but hours later he was brought back to reality by the captain announcing their descent. Half an hour later, the plane landed at London Heathrow Airport.

_Jolly old England_, Michael thought to himself as he looked through the window, watching the gloomy fog go by.

* * *

There is little daylight left by the time Michael and Roger rent a rather ugly Vauxhall Vectra for their drive to Taunton, Somerset. With Roger driving, they take the M4 motorway west towards Bristol, and then turn southwest on the M5. It is a very long drive, being a distance of a good 150 miles, _or about 200 kilometres_, Michael mentally calculates.

Michael very quickly finds himself annoyed with Roger's driving. The psychologist drives ten miles per hour slower than the speed limit, so consequently cars and trucks and every other kind of vehicle zip past them.

They finally get off the M5 and pull into Taunton after dark after almost three hours of monotonous driving – almost as bad as the agonising flight, but just shorter. He had unfortunately been fully conscious for the car ride, kept awake by the "easy listening" music humming from the radio.

Roger parks the car and the two of them get out. Immediately, Michael is hit by a wall of cold air. The weather is dark, morose, even ominous. A thick, impenetrable fog clings to the earth, smothering everything it touches.

Michael now understands perfectly why he had wanted to move to Australia.

The two walk in the direction of the devastation caused by the mysterious freak hurricane several months before. Soon enough, Michael encounters the first signs of its impact.

"Anything coming back to you, Michael?" asks Roger the Psychologist.

"No… not yet," he mutters in response.

The area doesn't look like it had been hit by a hurricane. Sure, there are uprooted trees and some houses with their roofs ripped off, but the damage is strangely localised in certain areas. Single houses or rows of houses are completely obliterated (with new houses under construction to replace them), but other houses and rows are left completely intact. _Hurricanes are supposed to be indiscriminating_…

The brass cartridge cases he remembers that were scattered about had all disappeared. However, the marks left by their bullets remain. Here and there walls are pockmarked with bullet holes. There are also fresh stretches of asphalt in parts of the roads, covering what Michael suspected had once been craters.

They arrive at a street that Michael remembers walking down after the hurricane. He beckons for Roger to follow, and the two hustle down the lane, drawing their coats tighter to keep out the cold. Michael follows the path excitedly, hoping it will lead to some sort of clue, any kind of evidence proving who he is.

And there it is: the dark, secluded corner where Michael Cunningham's life began.

"This is it," he tells Roger the Psychologist.

Michael walks into the space, wondering why he had been there to begin with. His oldest memory of himself dated only a few months back to the "hurricane." He had been in that very corner, wiping something off his face and examining the uniform he was wearing–

"Christ!" Michael exclaims, cursing his horrible memory.

"What?" asks Roger, alarmed.

"How could I have forgotten? I was in a uniform! A British Army uniform!"

"You were? What did the name tag say?"

For the life of him, Michael can't remember, and he informs Roger about that unfortunate fact. He at least remembers concrete proof that he is, in fact, former British Army personnel. However, it is aggravating, having come so close, yet still being so far from the answer to his identity. With this realisation, Michael is suddenly aware of how cold and foggy it is.

And it is just getting colder.

There is a rattling breath, a something that is sucking the very life out of the air. Impossibly, the air bites even colder and darkens. The mist condenses. There is a descending pall of gloom, as if all sense of happiness had simply ceased to be.

The rattling, sucking breath gets louder; it is closer, and Michael finds himself unable to move. It is as if very bones in Michael's body had turned to ice. He is paralyzed with terror.

"Michael?" says Roger, concerned.

He hears laughter in his head, but it is not his own. They are jeers, cries of amusement towards pain, pain that is… _his_. The ghost of a memory in the far reaches of Michael's mind tauntingly shouts _CRUCIO!_ Inexplicitly, Michael's body erupts in agony, tortured by the dwindling recollection of terrors long past.

He collapses from the pain of it all, both physical and mental. His eyes close shut as he opens his mouth, screaming. His mind is an explosion of a multitude of forgotten terrors. He sees friends he never knew slaughtered; sees himself tortured by laughing, hooded, and masked men, whose faceless faces alone are horrors to behold.

"MICHAEL!" says Roger's alarmed voice. "What's wrong? What's happen–"

Roger doesn't finish the sentence, because now he is screaming too.

It is cold and his head only knows horror, but the Psychologist's cries are even more terrifying. Roger's scream pierces through the thick night, but it is unexpectedly cut off.

Roger's shrieks are replaced by the terrifying, rattling breath. There is startling rasping noise, as if all of the air is inexorably being sucked right out of him. The sound is so terrible that Michael can not help opening his eyes, ignoring the pain his own soul is suffering.

As soon as he opens his eyes and sees Roger, he immediately wishes he hadn't. He knows the sight will haunt him for the rest of his life.

Roger is thrashing on the ground, his eyes wide open. His mouth is agape too and he appears to be screaming, but the only noise is the rattling breath and the appalling gasping sound of all the air, or perhaps his very essence, being brutally ripped from his lungs. Roger's body convulses in agony and his limbs flail helplessly, but he suddenly – inexplicitly – falls limp. His neck slackens and Roger's head rests on its side; his mouth open and his blank, unseeing eyes staring vacantly in Michael's direction.

Roger didn't move at all after that.

The rattling breath gets louder and louder, nearing Michael. His head is tortured and his brain convulses with the echoes of mad laughter, screams, and the horrific sight he had just witnessed. The pain intensifies as his ears are filled with the deafening din of the rattling deathly breath.

Michael turns his head away, desperate to avoid the sight of Roger's statue-still body. He scrambles and stumbles blindly, trying to distance himself from the incoming invisible… _thing_.

His body backs up into walls of the dark corner, and his limbs go limp, their strength stolen by the disembodied breath. Michael wills himself to try to escape, but his body betrays him. The rattling gets closer.

_Screaming. Laughing. Agony. Roger twitching and then lying still._

The nightmarish echoes strengthen, and the ability to think independently is easily brushed aside. Michael is left only with the worst reminiscences of a life he never knew. _Why couldn't it just end?_ If he could only think of one thing, it was that very question.

What feels like cold, firm hands grip Michael's face and force his head upwards, but there is nothing there supporting him; just the night and the fog. The rattling breath is booming; he could feel the cold air against his face being sucked into the invisible void, directly in front of him.

The air from Michael's lungs is stolen from his body by rattling breath. He soon feels numb, his mind and thoughts empty.

Just then, there is pain on the back of his head. The thing; that horrible, rattling breath drops him back to the ground. There is a faint silver glow at the edge of Michael's blurred vision, growing brighter and closer, and the cold subsides by the tiniest margin. _Is that hope?_ his numb brain wonders.

Whether it is or not, he doesn't find out; the fresh horrors and the pain are too much to bear.

Michael Cunningham yields to the suffocating darkness.

* * *

**Notes**

The U.K. began its metrification process in 1978 as a condition for membership in the European Economic Community, which has since become the European Union. Under the terms, the U.K. was to replace imperial measurements for things like packaging and such with metric units. However, road distances and speeds were allowed to continue using the imperial system, simply due to the vast cost of changing the measurements for every road sign in Britain to metric, and not to mention maps, car speedometers, etc. That is why the measurements in this story have been predominately metric, with the exception of road distances.

When I was first writing chapter three, I used the terms "psychology/psychologist" and "psychiatry/psychiatrist" interchangeably. After a little bit of research, I found out that they are in fact two separate things. Roger the Psychologist is a psychologist because he interviews people and tries to figure out their problems through counselling and doing those weird mind test things that I don't understand. A psychiatrist, on the other hand, studies the actual brain of the subject person, and prescribes medication and such.

Anyway, thank you very much for reading the fourth chapter of this story. I really appreciate any reviews for this story, so please do so if you have the extra minute. Thank you.

Pseudonym Sam


End file.
